


The One Where Brent Has Doubts and Then He Doesn't

by nev_longbottom



Category: Bandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:49:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nev_longbottom/pseuds/nev_longbottom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brent gets a peptalk from someone who would know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Where Brent Has Doubts and Then He Doesn't

Brent tells himself he won't take off, he even promises on his Grandma's grave, but then the tour hits London. He's at the merch table, with Brendon on his left and Ryan&Spencer on his right, once again reminding Brent way too much of the twins who managed to Escape to Witch Mountain. Brent doesn't even noticed how many girls and guys he's signed for when this one girl takes off her underwear in front of him, asks him to sign it right after asking him if his sister got the tricycle she wanted for her birthday. Brent is so shocked, Brendon has to wave Zack down for him.

He stands up then, tells Zack quietly that he has to take a break, before heading towards the buses. He can hear Brendon smooth over his disappearance by chattering to the next group of girls. Brent can barely understand how they can deal with it.

Brent is not that guy, okay? Brent hasn't been okay with people throwing themselves at him since ever. He doesn't like the way Ryan and Spencer mind meld all the time to get their way in any situation and Brendon doesn't care. Biggest of all, he doesn't like the way the overnight fame is messing with his friends.

Brent waits until he's out of sight of the guys and he hops on the The Academy's bus. He does what he does best. Brent switches his shirt for one of Carden's while the guys are out. He switches his jean jacket for a beaten leather one belonging to Jack the Camera Guy and uses one of the Butcher's hats to cover most of his hair.

The coast is clear when he slips out of the bus. He uses the back exit of the venue to sneak out far enough that he can just walk away. If there's one thing Brent does better than good, it's disappearing. He walks a block away, then circles back as if he's walking to the venue and he hops in the first cab he can flag down.

He doesn't go far. After five minutes going down the same street, he tells the cabbie to stop i front of a a gritty fish and chips shop. At first look, the place seems filled with rumpled and unimpressed adults. He notices a Claire's outlet across the street so he pops his collar as high as he can get it and pushes through the front door.

The tables are all filled.

The bar is built from wood as old as stoic as London. There's cobwebs in the corners, but the paintings on the wall gleam from a fresh cleaning and the back wall behind the bar is completely lined with pictures of clients at the bar, enjoying themselves. He loves it a little.

The chipped counter cutting the left wall reminds his of his first guitar. His grandfather had said, "Here," with the kind of casual frailty in his voice that Brent heard once a year at Christmas. The guitar hadn't been wrapped. It was fret-less and dented in a couple places. A chunk of the neck had been broken off so long ago that the edges had smoothed with time. The strings had been worn with love and constant playing. He loved that guitar from the moment he met because he figured if his grandfather and his grandfather's grandfather could love something that much, he could too.

That was what the pub was like. Well loved. It made him feel a little daring, which is why he went to the back and sat at the same corner table as an older woman with large glasses and a scarf, working he way through a newspaper parcel of fries.

"I'll buy you a drink if you promise not to say anything when I take off my hat." Brent says.

The woman stops with the fry half way to her mouth. Her eyebrows arch up high above her glasses and the corners of her mouth twitch in the same direction.

"Please," he adds. "I borrowed this hat from a friend and I'm starting to freak out over his freaky lead and animal musk smell. It's gross, ma'am."

Her mouth, laughter rich, says, "That does sound rather awful. I'll have the peppermint tea, please."

Brent flags down a waitress and orders the tea and a glass of milk. He doesn't look her in the eyes when he orders, instead tugging the hat a little lower. When she leaves, he looks about to make sure none of the girls in Panic!'s demographic - he hates his life for demographics - are in the pub.

The stranger actually smiles when he pulls the hat off and runs his hands through his hair. "Don't bother, it's going to look awful no matter what you do. Trust me."

She reaches for the knot in her scarf, undoing it in quick precise movements before carefully unwrapping the butter yellow from around her hair and neck. Brent doesn't get it until she takes off her sunglasses and she bats the big brown eyes he saw ever morning in the fifth grade staring at him from ten million items of girl oriented merchandise. "You're Posh!"

Her face stills like the surface of a lake - a Ryan move Brent had long become familiar with. "Sorry, sorry," he says quickly. "I mean, it's nice to meet you Mrs.Beckham."

He can see the ease ripple in her lake water face. "You're a very polite pop star, Mr. Wilson," Mrs. Beckham says.

Brent flinches.

"Ah," she says. "It's like that."

He scratches the back of his head. "How'd you deal with it?" He doesn't ask about the fans, the crazies, or any of the stupid things, like missing the sound of his sister's snoring through the wall because she'sfriggin' Posh Spice. She gets it.

Mrs Beckham tilts her head, looking up past him at the ceiling with just her nose scrunched in concentration. After a moment, she wipes her fingers carefully on the edge of the news paper and holds out her hand, looking him in the eyes. "Here, I'll show you."

Brent gives her his hand. Without a moment's hesitation, she yanks his hand into her mouth and bites down hard.

"Jesus fuck!" he yells, disrupting the quiet pub chatter. He yanks his hand back, and squeezes it to his chest. "What was that? Are you-" A thought suddenly occurs with him and Brent goes cold with terror, "-did you just turn me into a werewolf?"

She snorts loudly. "No, you idiot. Think, what would your bandmates have done in that situation?"

Brent thinks about it, wrapping the edge of his shirt against his lightly bleeding hand. Brendon would have had the same reaction more or less, only he would have guessed vampires and he would have been excited about it. Spencer with have given her crazy eyes but wouldn't have questioned it since Brent had found a copy of Spice World stashed in the guy's spank box. And Ryan... Brent's pretty sure Ryan would have opened his eyes really wide and then told her his safe word. He bets it's something ridiculous and literary like "Kerouac" or something.

"They'd freak out like I did," he says quietly.

Mrs. Beckham smiles at him again. "Next time you feel like running again, remind yourself about that. Anyone can make a friend. It takes more than that to make a band."

Brent tries to forget about the bacteria in a human mouth long enough to give her a genuine smile. "Thanks." It works, but then he wonders about the bacteria in a werewolf's mouth and then he just feels horrified. "I should go. I have sound check."

She gives him an all knowing nod and put the sunglasses on. It reminds him to put on his hat before he leaves. He doesn't know what to say, goodbye or good luck so he puts a couple pounds of British money on the table and leaves.

The cab gets him back with over an hour to spare. He spends the hour filling in Brendon on his theory about Spencer and Ryan secretly being psychic aliens from a Disney movie and they try to prove that Spencer can move objects with his Harmonica. He doesn't tell them where he was or who he met. The important thing is he doesn't disappear again and he doesn't have doubts.


End file.
